


In a Dark Wood

by Neyasochi



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Ashenvale AU, Blood, Breathplay, Enemies With Benefits, Garrosh POV, Hate Sex, M/M, Sword/Knifeplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-14
Updated: 2020-04-15
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:20:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23657485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neyasochi/pseuds/Neyasochi
Summary: Garrosh's failed assault on Ashenvale ends with him weakened, wounded, and at the mercy of the human king.
Relationships: Garrosh Hellscream/Varian Wrynn
Comments: 12
Kudos: 32





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> An edited, cleaned up, and reposted version of my old WoW fic from tumblr/ffnet!

The Horde's assault on Ashenvale is floundering, the tide of battle upset by the sudden arrival of the worgen and the human king that leads their reeking pack.

Bodies are strewn across the earth as thick as tanglevine and lavender moss, still intertwined where they’d fallen while locked in combat— piles of elves and orcs, of trolls and humans and tauren. The earth is wet and dark with their blood; the nearby river froths red with the battlefield runoff. Acrid smoke lingers low in the air, its haziness filled by the screams of the wounded. Under the clashing of steel and the faint _hiss-thud_ of arrows striking their targets, the groans of the dying magnataur carry over the forested hillsides, as deep and rumbling as the noises that the great trees in Ashenvale make when they are felled.

But for Garrosh Hellscream, there is no time to mourn the powerful, brutish creatures he had based his grand strategy upon. Even as the last magnataur succumbs to the furious attacks of worgen and elves— a bitter loss that only compounds the dire straits of the Horde on this battlefield— he struggles to hold his own in a duel with the human king.

 _Varian Wrynn_. It would be better if Wrynn had been an orc, though it galls Garrosh to even admit that much. He’s too ferocious to be human. Too exhilitarting in battle. Too worthy a foe. And were Wrynn born to a Warsong or a Frostwolf or a Blackrock, they might be _allies_ rather than blood-crossed enemies, brothers-in-arms instead of… _this._

Wrynn takes no pause and gives Garrosh no rest. He lunges forward at every opportunity, the relentless fury behind Shalamayne’s strikes pressing the orcish warchief backward, forcing him to give up ground until they’re alone at the very fringes of the battle, forgotten by their warring armies. His dual-bladed sword seems to arc further than its length should allow, sweeping through the air faster than any mortal hand should propel it.

All that Wrynn does seems impossible for one of his kind, so small and frail by comparison to any orc. Garrosh can scarcely imagine a reason for his inhuman strength other than Lo’Gosh’s favor, and the thought of the wolf Ancient choosing _Varian Wrynn_ for his blessing is enough to raise bitter, jealous bile in the back of his throat.

They stagger deeper into the forest, where the dense foliage muffles all sound and violet-tinged shadows turn smoky daylight to dusk. The distant cries of battle wither to a whisper. Moss stifles the weighty steps of armored greaves. All Garrosh can hear is his own ragged breath, Wrynn’s harsh panting, and the metallic shrieks of their weapons slicing the air before clashing again. 

A few deft swipes with Gorehowl do nothing to deter Wrynn, who returns the greataxe’s intended blows with vicious jabs of his own. Shalamayne kisses flesh once, twice, its honed edge parting slices through the scar-lined muscle of Garrosh’s arms.

They’re shallow cuts, but they sting worse coming from a human. Coming from _this_ human. Garrosh lifts Gorehowl in time to block the next strike, thick fingers flexing tight around the heft of the axe to hold steady against the jarring impact. He’d like to wind his hands around Wrynn’s neck in the same manner, to wring his throat like a fowl and carry him home to Orgrimmar just as limp and broken.

And this close, their blades locked together in a contest of wills, Garrosh can see the same desire smoldering in the striking blue of Wrynn’s eyes, under those thick, furrowed brows and above that dark scar that bridges his nose, cheek-to-cheek— a mind to slay him here and carry his head back to Stormwind to set on a pike, perhaps.

With a snarl and a forceful shove, Wrynn breaks the brief stalemate and brings Shalamayne around in another punishing swing. 

Gorehowl meets the blade in time, but the sheer intensity of the blow threatens to push Garrosh back another foot, his boots sliding across Ashenvale’s damp earth and soft, purple-tinged moss. He grits his teeth and digs his heels in, laboring to hold his stance, tusks and teeth gritted as the reverberations rattle through Gorehowl and up his arms.

Once, Garrosh had stood atop the great gates of Orgrimmar to observe the spectacle of wild kodos being tamed in a ring far below. Enormous wooden approximations of tauren and orcs were bound with rough cloth and padded with dry grasses, then painted in garish colors so as to draw the attention of the furious, roiling beasts. He had paid more attention to the quick-footed handlers confronting the wild kodos than the creatures themselves, but that did not mean the beasts’ relentless ferocity against the dummies went unnoticed.

And now he felt like the recipient of such an assault— so brutal and unforgiving that he can no more counter his attacker than the wooden dummies in the kodo ring could. 

The battle for Ashenvale had taken a toll even before Varian Wrynn appeared with worgen reinforcements, but this duel alone is more taxing than slaying whole contingents of night elf warriors and druids. Garrosh’s arms nearly go numb from the ringing vibrations of his axe as Shalamayne strikes it again and again, like lightning made solid. His grip on the weapon loosens despite his enraged bellowing and the tightness of his fists. Even his steps grow uncertain under the shadowed boughs of the trees above, the undergrowth twisting about his ankles like a living thing.

A bead of sweat— tinged a dark, clear crimson from the blood splattered across Garrosh's face— rolls down his forehead and into his eye, stinging.

As if sensing the flicker of weakness, Wrynn ducks low and brings his blade up in a swift, twisting slice that Garrosh hears more than he sees. Gorehowl catches the brunt of the strike, but only barely; the heavy axe is sent spinning from his hands by the impact, and Garrosh can do nothing but watch it disappear into the shadows, the blood-stained metal making a muted thud somewhere against the thick carpet of moss.

The tip of Shalamayne immediately finds its way into the crook of his arm, ripping a pained bellow out of the weaponless orc.

Garrosh wrenches himself back as quickly as he can, a warm rush of blood running down his forearm as he pulls loose from Shalamayne’s biting tip. He rolls as soon as he hits the ground, but even though he’s rather quick for his size, Wrynn’s blade finds his flesh once more.

Warm metal rakes cleanly across the back of one thigh, effortlessly opening a dark seam through Garrosh’s sturdily-stitched leathers and soaking the material with fresh blood. The orc clenches his jaw, snarls, and rolls again, putting precious distance between himself and Wrynn while he claws blindly at the earth for Gorehowl.

His fingers rip through ground-covering vines and lush moss, hunting for the familiar and comforting feel of Gorehowl in his grip. But the shadows here are too deep, too dark, too disorienting. Damn the night elves and their cursed forests, their blasted trees and uselessly tangling foliage…

At last, a glimmer catches Garrosh’s eye. _Gorehowl,_ lying half buried in violet leaves and brambles— and out of his reach. 

His father’s famed greataxe slumbers at Varian Wrynn’s feet, no more deadly than a spent arrow without a warrior to wield it. Garrosh draws himself up into a defensive crouch, glowering at Wrynn across the small clearing.

The human king gives Shalamayne a lazy spin and takes languid, measured steps closer, ‘til the toes of his greaves brush against the axe that only Hellscreams could lay claim to. He stares down his nose at Garrosh with all the cool-eyed confidence of one of Ashenvale’s nightsabers prowling in for the kill.

But Wrynn stops short, for once showing some reserve, and Garrosh’s boiling blood cools to an uncertain simmer as he waits and wonders why Wrynn hasn’t closed the gap and put an end to all of this, ending the Hellscream line and the Horde’s ambitions in one fell strike.

And then Garrosh’s left leg strains and buckles underneath his weight, the slash across the back of his thigh more crippling than he’d taken it for. Warm blood steadily trickles down his calf and pools in his boot; the cut is deep enough to sever muscle and tendon, and maybe enough to scrape across bone. Exhaustion and agony make it hard to be too discerning, and a cloud of useless, consuming rage fogs his senses further.

Wrynn’s scowl twists into a cutting smirk, smug expression kindling rage in the orc’s chest like a bellows breathing life into a furnace. Acid fills Garrosh’s mouth until he wants to retch, to crush stone with his bare hands, to tear the clawed necklace from his throat and beat his own chest until he bruises. As if it isn’t enough to witness his assault on Ashenvale turned aside by a pack of mongrels and simpering elves, he has to see Varian Wrynn see him like _this—_ disarmed, crippled, less a force to be reckoned with and more a nuisance to be pitied and put out of his misery.

"I need no weapon to kill you," Garrosh threatens, his lips curling around his tusks. 

Privately, he has his doubts. Perhaps if he could rise, if he could get up and use his size to his advantage… but his leg refuses to bear his weight each time he tests it, and nothing mortifies Garrosh more than the possibility of falling and floundering weakly in front of such a worthy, well-hated foe. He would sooner die like this— on his knees, yes, unfortunately, but _unbowed_ — than to expose the extent of his weakness.

"Even with this ugly monstrosity in hand, you could barely hold against me," Wrynn mutters as he nudges Gorehowl further away with his foot, grinning when he notices it makes the orc bristle. "You can no more kill me than your _people_ can take Ashenvale. I use the term loosely, of course."

Garrosh watches him gloat. Watches the way he licks his bloodied lips and lets his gaze flit to their right, where the battlefield lay somewhere beyond the vine-strewn trees, their armies continuing on without them.

"Your great push has faltered," Wrynn says to him, taking blatant satisfaction in the brief surge of impetuous fury his words rouse in the wounded warchief.

Garrosh had never felt so low, so encumbered by his hate and shame and wounded pride. In Northrend, he’d repurposed those old feelings into something useful— fodder to fuel him as he gave the Horde the glory and purpose it required. Now, rage burns through him as fleeting as lightning and lingers with the dull heat of burned-out embers.

"I would have succeeded," he says, bitterly, "had it not been for you." 

Garrosh meets Wrynn’s gaze and holds it, hoping it might be enough to gall the human into striking him down quick. It’s not the glorious death in the heat of battle that he would gladly have embraced, but Wrynn is a true warrior, favored by Lo'Gosh, with all the fury and strength of well-bred orc. Not one of the other Alliance scum are as worthy of his axe, and not one of them would serve Garrosh a death half as good as Varian will, if he can be convinced to grant it.

Wrynn’s temper runs almost as short as Garrosh’s, after all. A sudden lunge for Shalamayne might be enough to force his hand. Or perhaps a threat to that frail little prince of his. Or a reminder of what orckind had already taken from him, maybe.

"You are clever, for a beast. But you would never have had victory," Wrynn sneers. He tilts Shalamayne and glances down the blade, considering the dark, orcish blood streaked along its edge.

Garrosh spits, landing far short of Wrynn’s feet. The taste of blood lingers on his tongue.

"The elves go begging a moon for aid even as they are slaughtered," he snorts, every word drippingly derisive. How long have the night elves thwarted the Horde’s every effort to make a home for themselves, hoarding a wealth of resources while his people scrounged out a living from the rocks in Durotar? "It was not the magic of some elven god that turned this battle, _Varian Wrynn._ But rest assured— killing me will only give my people more fire. The Horde will return with a greater army, and Ashenvale will be just the first land claimed for this new Azeroth. _Our_ Azeroth."

"You and your abhorrent brethren," the king breathes, swiftly bringing the tip of Shalamayne to rest just below Garrosh’s chin, "are a blight upon this world. One that I intend to purge us of."

Garrosh swallows thickly, breath catching deep in his throat. He waits for the sudden thrust, for Shalamayne’s tip to sink swiftly into his muscle and veins. He keeps his eyes on Wrynn’s, determined to hold his gaze even as he bleeds out— to carry the afterimage of him into the afterlife, and to ensure Varian Wrynn always remembers this moment, too.

But that sharp, messy release doesn’t come. Instead, Wrynn brings the blade up to caress Garrosh's cheek, running it lightly over the bold tattoos and old scars. Wispy little trails of light filter down through the branches and glint off of Shalamayne’s polished surface, wherever blood hasn’t already coated it. As he traces the blade along Garrosh’s skin, the reflected light plays over the orc’s high cheekbones and the strong planes of his bruised, crimson-spattered face.

"You are beasts that have been allowed to run amok." Wrynn drags the tip of Shalamayne across the warchief's lips and, with deft maneuvering, parts them just so. "You are an open wound allowed to fester."

And Garrosh is still— _so_ still, as much held in place by the massive weapon suspended before his face as by the commanding tone and gaze of Ashenvale's victor.

Until a shudder ripples through him, as uncontrollable as the tides or the whims of the winds.

"And if it is to be either _your_ Horde or the Alliance," Wrynn murmurs, pulling the blade up so that it leaves a clean slice through the orc's upper lip, "then I will crush you _and_ it beneath my heel like the wretched vermin you are."

Garrosh tastes blood anew, fresh and strong where it drips over his gums and between his teeth. He _smells_ it, that bitterly iron tang that calls to mind warfare and mak’gora and victory, as heady as any wine could ever be and certainly as intoxicating. And _oh,_ how he wishes their positions were switched, with him slowly teasing and tormenting the human king like this…

He had always pictured his triumph over Varian Wrynn to be a quick and public thing, a glorious moment in which he held the man’s freshly severed head or broken body up for all the clans to see, the thumping of fists across the chests of his proud soldiers like a warsong chanted in his honor.

But this? This has an appeal, this strange and intimate anguish— even being on the receiving end, Garrosh notes with not a little disdain for himself. It is good to know this is personal for Wrynn, too. That his hatred runs just as deep. That Garrosh has left enough of an impression on the vaunted human king to have earned his iresome attention.

The orc lets his eyes slip shut, briefly, for a moment dwelling on just the featherlight kiss of the blade still resting against his lips, blood welling against the metal before it drips from his mouth and disappears into the overgrown forest floor. For a moment he waits, wondering if Wrynn will finish him now or let the uncertainty drag on for minutes more. 

Garrosh finds he cares less and less, so long as Wrynn kills him. He couldn’t bear the shame of being dragged to Stormwind in chains, kept alive just to be degraded— what would he say to his father when he joins him in the afterlife? To all the ancestors of the Warsong clan?

After several long seconds of only blood, metal, and the sound of their breathing, dark, amber eyes creak open and peer up at Varian.

"Does your hand falter, human? Or is that sword incapable of cutting more than my lip?" he carefully asks around the blade against his teeth.

"Perhaps I was contemplating whether to remove your tongue first," the king answers, sour. A thick, dark eyebrow arches, almost amused. "And perhaps you just aided me in my decision-making."

Garrosh growls in irritation. " _Humans_ … why raise your blade at all if you do not intend to use it?" he asks, scornful. "Your hesitancy speaks of your weakness. Either finish it or hand your weapon to me. I would put it to good use," he adds, grinning despite the split in his lip.

"I take no orders from an orcish dog," Wrynn hisses, quickly bringing Shalamayne's edge to press against a dark bruise on the side of the warchief's neck. "And I would be more concerned about what your eagerness for death says about _you_ ," he says through clenched teeth, eyeing Garrosh up and down.

Garrosh flushes with smoldering heat under that stare, skin prickling with embarrassment. Even in the forest’s low light, the darkening of his cheeks and ears must be unmistakable.

"If you truly wish to die, then you could go about it in subtler, less… destructive ways," Wrynn tells him, the words quieter but no less firm. "You need not throw a whole war just to end yourself."

"I do not long for death," Garrosh insists, if only to oppose Varian Wrynn. " _I want—_ I want…” He grunts out a dismissive note, at a loss. “It matters not. A _human_ would not understand."

And he wouldn't, because Garrosh is an _orc_ and even he doesn't understand. Not really. Not with constance. He knows what to desire— honor, respect, a mark upon the world that he could look upon with pride as an ancestor— but achieving it has been less straightforward than he’d imagined.

If he had ever had the opportunity to receive his father's counsel, the path would be clearer to him. As it is, Garrosh can only follow the faded trail of Grom Hellscream's footsteps and hope he arrives at the same end.

Wrynn’s eyes narrow, unconvinced, and his sharp, square jaw tightens. "Hm. Well, if you do wish to fall upon a sword, it will have to be your own," he says in low tones. "I will do you no favors just yet."

With that, Shalamayne draws back a scant few inches, its tip still dripping with red-black blood.

"You stay your hand?" Garrosh asks, giving the sword a disbelieving sidelong glance.

"For now," Wrynn answers, reluctantly lowering his blade another inch or two. "What would slaughtering you here accomplish?" he asks, the blue of his eyes hardening like Northrend frost. "The Horde is a beast with more heads than is good for it. I slay you now and on the morrow two more thorns will spring up to prick my sides," the king complains. "Light, and _Sylvanas…_ no, better the beaten dog that I know than the prowling one that I don't."

Heat flares in Garrosh’s veins, flooding him like a killing fever. Anger must shine in his eyes like sparks.

"You're _insulted_ that I'm not going to kill you," Varian says, shaking his head as he stares down at Garrosh. Then he laughs— a hollow, mocking sound of disbelief.

"You will regret this, Wrynn," Garrosh spits. His indignation surges, more potent than the pain; with a poorly stifled groan, he pushes himself up off the ground, all of his weight on the right leg as he forces himself to unflinchingly endure the piercing throb coming from the left.

"Somehow… I very much doubt that," Wrynn says, his sneering smile making Garrosh’s nostrils flare in unchecked anger. "Unless you plan to come after me as I walk away? You're more than welcome to," he says, gaze dropping to the orc’s wounded leg.

Perhaps it’s the rage-boil of his blood that propels Garrosh forward, or maybe sheer will in the face of Wrynn's self-satisfied assurance that he could not be touched— either way, he manages to stride forward despite the heavy slash across the back of his thigh, momentum carrying him within reach of Varian Wrynn.

Close enough to tower over him again, staring down at the human king— the way it always ought to be. Close enough to bury his fists in the fur trim of Wrynn’s kingly cape and jerk him close, the fine fabric twisting in his hands. Close enough to feel the deadly divide of Shalamayne between them, Wrynn pressing the blood-wet edge into Garrosh until it breaks the skin, silently warning that he could drive it deeper.

Garrosh would die, but he might manage to kill Wrynn beforehand. It would only take one blow sharp enough to crack the human’s thin, pale neck. One skull-crunching punch to his scarred face, shattering that strong jaw and caving in that shapely nose. One sudden twist of Wrynn’s hips and torso to pop his spine, and the prowling forest beasts could do the rest…

"I could kill you, too," Garrosh breathes, the barest hint of a smile touching the corner of his bloodied mouth. It stings, the fresh slice through the soft flesh of his upper lip pulling open again at the movement. "But I have so much more to give you, King Wrynn," he says with a raspy almost-laugh. "And you, me," he adds, briefly glancing down at the thin, dark line of blood stretching diagonally across his torso, from shoulder to the bottom of his ribs, where Shalamayne is still biting into him.

"Shalamayne _does_ love your blood," Wrynn murmurs, reluctant and perplexed. His gaze dips down between them, where red-black wells up along the silvery pale edge of his sword.

"As Gorehowl longs for yours," Garrosh rumbles, thinking once more of how bright Wrynn’s blood is— how strikingly red, how soft in taste compared to what runs through orcish veins. And from this angle, from this painfully close distance, his attention wanders to the jaggedness of Varian’s scars and the length of those lashes, as dark and lustrous as the fur of a black-pelted wolf.

Wrynn lifts his chin and snorts at the mention of the legendary Hellscream axe. "If your performance today was any indication, that foul axe of yours is going to be parched for quite some time.”

Garrosh sneers at the casual disrespect. He tightens his grip on the human king and pulls him closer, ignoring the sting of steel slicing deeper into his chest. Varian doesn’t so much as flinch, even with their faces so close that Garrosh might just headbutt him hard enough to crack bone, or tear out his tender throat with sharp teeth and tusks, or force his mouth hungrily against those lips that look so soft under all that dry, cracked skin.

And they are. Soft. _Humans_ are soft, and underneath the rough scars and the weathered skin and the dried mud, Varian is as soft as the rest. His chapped lips turn slick with Garrosh’s blood, his delicate, tanned skin smearing with wet streaks of near-black. And under the heavy tang of iron and smoke, he tastes like salt and something raw.

Varian’s free hand finds Garrosh’s jaw, leather-clad fingertips digging into black inked skin hard enough to bruise, prying him loose. He wrenches back at last, sucking down a desperate lungful of air; the tip of his delicate, pink tongue slides over his lips as if to cleanse them of the taste of orc.

"You… you're more depraved than I thought," Wrynn says, his voice ragged and rough. His hand slides down to grip at the warchief's thick neck, fingers barely able to find solid purchase around the inhumanly thick column of muscle there.

Garrosh growls low in the back of his throat as the human's thumb brushes up and down his windpipe— the sound is almost contented, almost a purr. "Yet you still haven't killed me," he reminds the king, once again eyeing the sword between them, metal all dark and slick with his blood.

Wrynn's face hardens at that, and Garrosh is pleased to have stricken a nerve; it’s the least he can do to repay Wrynn.

"Your queen is long dead, isn't she?" Garrosh questions, his lip curling at the thought of Varian's pathetically soft human mate. "Could it be the king keeps his bed empty because he craves an orc's—"

The first punch to his throat catches him off-guard, cutting Garrosh’s breath mid-word. The second makes his eyes water, the metal studs on the knuckles of the king's leather gloves digging into the tender flesh below his jaw.

He can’t stifle a scream as Varian bears him down to the ground, pain lancing through every inch of him as he crumples atop his leg. It’s agony, every wound he’s collected crying out at once— a hundred bruises and cuts, the gashes in his arm, the long slice across his torso, and his thigh most of all.

Garrosh’s frustrated bellow comes out as a strangled grunt as Wrynn's hands close around his throat, two thumbs pushing hard against the underside of his jaw. He’s too weak to push the human off of him, too dazed to do anything but loll his head as the edges of his vision dim and stars bloom behind his eyes. He'd rather have died by the sword.

Air floods his lungs with the suddenness of Durotar rains, clearing the fog that hangs over his head. And then his breath is taken from him again— this time by a mouth pressed flush against his.

Varian's scar-crossed lips move against his own, forceful and demanding and still stained with the dark spill of orc blood. His tongue sweeps along Garrosh’s teeth before sliding up to taste the cut he’d left in his upper lip, the wound stinging sharp at the intrusion. The human king’s teeth knock against his tusks, briefly jarring the both of them. And then Wrynn is pushing ahead again, undeterred, bravely slipping his tongue into Garrosh’s mouth and dragging its tip behind a row of hard, sharp teeth.

Garrosh only briefly considers biting it off— it would do well to curb the king’s smart mouth, but there’s something to be said for the way Wrynn’s tongue feels against his lips and along the inside of his cheek. Deep in his chest, under the weight of Varian in his heavy plate armor, Garrosh’s lungs burn; he wants for air, achingly so, but still wants _this_ more.

 _This_ being something he’d never even known to desire until it happened upon him— Varian sitting across his chest, pinning him down with thighs thick with muscle as he takes his fill of the Horde’s warchief. Varian’s leather-clad hands are never still upon him, always running up and down Garrosh’s throat or snaking up to slide over his cheeks or thumbing the sore gash on his lip.

Garrosh lets his eyes slip shut as the king leans back, his weight shifting and resettling closer to the orc’s middle. Every inch of his mouth tingles as though it’s still being savagely explored; his skin still burns like a brand wherever Varian’s hands have lingered. Curious, Garrosh pushes his own tongue against the tear in his swollen upper lip, forcing out a trickle of blood to taste the salty bitterness of it, as Varian had.

He thinks again of how much he’d like to have this predicament reversed, although the pressure of Varian’s hips across his ribs is far from unpleasant. He could muster the strength to roll the human onto his back, maybe— cage him down against the earth and ravage him for a turn, until the king is thoroughly, unmistakably marked, claimed for all his soldiers to see and silently question.

"I spoke wrongly earlier," Varian says, still a little breathless, interrupting Garrosh’s simmering train of thought. He pauses to wipe the blood from his mouth with the back of a hand. "A beast causes destruction, but it doesn't wage war. Those magnataur were _beasts_. You are a monster," he states, already wiping his glove off on his shirttail and adjusting his armor.

"Then what does that make you?" Garrosh asks of the human straddling him, his lips still stained dark with orcish blood.

Varian sighs as he wipes Shalamayne clean on his cape and slides the sword into the sheath across his back. "I ask myself that, too," he says as he rises to his feet.

Garrosh feels almost apart from his body as Varian circles him slow, the toes of heavy human-forged greaves nudging him in the side. "I said I wouldn't kill you, but I'm not tending your wounds, Garrosh. You'd best find your simpering dogs before you bleed out."

"Varian," Garrosh growls as the nudging grows more insistent. He curls his upper lip and glares at Varian for all he is worth, though it’s tiring. Then he shuts his eyes again, agitated from the mere sight of a human looking down on him.

A weighty thump beside him makes Garrosh’s golden eyes fly wide open. At his side is Gorehowl, lying just within arm's reach.

And there’s Varian Wrynn's back, marked by his long sheath and bloodstained cloak, steadily retreating. He stops and turns, his matted, tangled tie of hair swaying as he cocks his head. "If you don't die, Garrosh, we should… resume this in a moon's time."

Garrosh listens to the rustle of foliage as the human retreats back to the battlefield, victorious, and then to the rising calls of insects and birds. With a drawn sigh, he reaches out and takes up Gorehowl, pulling the greataxe on top of him and letting its weight rest uncomfortably across his chest. It hurts, but perhaps that’s intrinsic to carrying a legacy.

He runs his fingers down the aged leather that wraps the shaft, kept dark and supple over the years with the spilled blood of a thousand enemies, and gathers the strength to pull himself back on his feet and limp toward the Warsong camp, though his undoubtedly frantic Kor'kron guards will likely find him before he had to travel far. For a few moments, Garrosh considers remaining here, closing his eyes and sinking down into this mire of a forest until he, too, is buried in Ashenvale's soil.

But it’s only a brief thought, there and gone in a flicker, for there are many reasons to live— to improve the Horde's lot, to convince the Alliance of his people's might, to affirm his worth to the naysayers who have dogged his path since he was a youngling with the red pox… and now there is Varian Wrynn's proposition, too.

He has one very good reason to _not die_ , too. Garrosh is _even less_ certain of how Grom would welcome him now, an orc willing to cavort with an enemy of the Horde— and a human, no less— and knew not a word of what he would say to his father's spirit in his own defense.


	2. Chapter 2

"Leave me."

"Warchief?" Dargo asks, his plated head swiveling toward Garrosh Hellscream. His black Kor'kron helmet tilts forward at the sudden movement, half a size too large for the young orc wearing it; it’s an ill-chosen replacement for Dargo’s last helm, knocked from his head and crushed underfoot by an unruly kodo. He lifts it by the bronze-rimmed visor to better see the warchief, his thick brow knitted together.

"I said _leave_ _me_ ," Garrosh growls, his tattooed lip curling. "And that goes for all of you," he adds, turning to direct the command to the rest of his Kor'kron guards and the half-dozen Warsong warriors that encircle him. "Hunt, eat, sleep, slaughter trespassing elves— I care not what you do, so long as you do it outside of my presence."

His Warsongs are the first to heed him, thumping their arms across their chests before stepping back and going their separate ways. The Kor'kron linger— they are, by and large, orcs of different clans or even no clan at all, their blood-ties eroded by the humans' imprisonment or washed out of them by the muddled streets of Orgrimmar.

"Warchief," Dargo says with a deep bow of his head that sends his oversized helmet tipping forward again. "If it is your order, we will obey, but—"

"Then _why_ aren't you obeying me?" Garrosh questions in a growl low enough to be mistaken for one of the prowling nightsabers that stalk Ashenvale’s plentiful forests.

"Warchief… we cannot protect you if you dismiss us," Gorkrana says in her low rasp, the sound of her voice further distorted by her full helm.

"I dismiss you because I do not need your protection." How many times does he have to say it? That the orcs who are supposedly his most loyal soldiers still question his words rankles him down to the bone. "Out of my sight, _now!"_

They disperse quickly, then, eyes and heads lowered. Garrosh does not miss the dubious glances that some of his Kor'kron trade amongst themselves as they go.

It is an offense, and not a light one. But discipline and understanding will have to wait until morning, or perhaps until they return to Orgrimmar. Many of the Kor’kron had served Thrall before him… but they would soon learn his rule and embrace it, would cast aside their doubt if— no, _when_ Garrosh proved that he could take for his people everything that they deserved to have.

Looking out at the forest surrounding the lumber camp sends the warchief’s blood into a simmer and his intestines twining into knots. Disappointment seems to carry on the wind here, the rustling of the leaves on those mammoth trees like disdainful laughter. Everywhere are reminders of his failed bid for more territory— and so they continue their logging operations under constant threat of night elf raids, forever short of harvesting the lumber needed to build stout and sturdy homes in Orgrimmar, to replace whatever inevitably burns down under stray sparks or lightning storms.

Garrosh grips the leather-wrapped portion of Gorehowl's shaft and gives it a squeeze, almost comforted by the near-habitual action. With a snort that shakes the golden ring through his nose, he squares his broad shoulders and stomps forward, almost hoping he might encounter a few night elves along the way to slay and settle his nerves.

His last night here in Ashenvale and the largest moon is nearly full, her white glow casting pale light over the endless forests. Almost full, but for the sliver of dark that clings onto the White Lady's side— same as it had been a month ago, as the day's battle bled into evening.

Garrosh doesn’t glance back as he approaches the treeline that marks the edge of the Warsong camp, for certainly his guards are still watching.

The forest is all velvety darkness. It seems to swallow up the orange glow of the nearby bonfires and torches, unsatisfied with moonlight alone. Garrosh doesn’t slow as he treads over thickening vines and dense undergrowth, neither wanting the Kor'kron to see him hesitate nor to give them the time to follow.

His irritation builds quick at the lack of visibility when it comes to the stars. Even Northrend, scourged as it was, had allowed him the sight to gain his bearings. Here, he can only go by guesswork and the memory of the maps that he had pored over leading up to last month's battle— the slope of the land, the scent of water, the placement of moss, the coloration of the leaves.

Which Garrosh can see, now, though it’s faint. Moonlight trickles down through the boughs here and there, and his eyes have adjusted well enough to let him see with some clarity. Orcs had never been night-hunters by choice, but their sight in darkness is keen enough to be useful— better than what humans can boast, at least.

The forest here is damp and close, with vines and spiders' webs draped from tree to tree to tree. They surround him on all sides, towering above until their leaves form a sky of their own, and no doubt spread for miles underneath his very feet with twisted, grasping roots. And yet his people have to fight the night elves tusk and claw for every one, even when the bounty of Ashenvale’s forest stretches from sea to sea.

Garrosh sighs and lets his fingers trail over the smooth, pale bark of one of the nearby trunks. For a brief moment, he thinks he might feel some shadow of whatever it is that so endears the feeble-minded kal'dorei to their precious forest; an echo, maybe, of something like the bearded tree ancients that still roam. But greater than that brief flicker of emotion is the knowledge that this tree alone— tall as the canyon walls that Orgrimmar was carved into— could provide enough lumber to house eight families, or construct one watchtower, or build two warmachines.

He shoulders through the undergrowth, turning to let the massive bulk of his pauldrons clear the way first. He counts as he works deeper into the forest, keeping the river always to his left— the river which marked the border of last month’s battle, long since finished but still evident by the scars left across the land.

A grunt of displeasure slips loose when Garrosh encounters a particularly dense swath of foliage. It requires Gorehowl to help clear the way, the blade of the axe sliding cleanly through ropey vine and young sapling alike. He frowns at the wet, green smear that’s left behind— not the dark, comforting sight of blood, but pale, watery slime and sap from cleaving the plantlife.

Garrosh tries wiping it away with his thumb, disgusted to have such filth upon Gorehowl at all and feeling partly as though he'd dishonored the blade by using it on anything but a sniveling human or elf. He runs the cheek of the axe along the side of his stitched leather pants, making a few hurried swipes back and forth before lifting the blade up for inspection.

The flat of the greataxe is grooved and scratched, but the portions of metal that remain smooth still hold a polish well. In its dim reflection, Garrosh notices the slightest movement in the forest to his left.

"Wrynn," he breathes out softly, a thrill racing through him like fire lighting upon oil. It’s all the anticipation of battle with none of the distracting concerns about formations and troops and movements and supply lines— the logistics that he had so often despised in Northrend.

There’s a faint rustle among the leaves, and then a voice speaks from the darkness.

"You came." A simple statement, but not without a shade of surprise. 

With footsteps soft as a nightstalker's, Varian Wrynn emerges from a shadowed recess between two stout-trunked trees. How he can tread so quietly in so much armor still vexes Garrosh, who sneers at the sight of the cobalt-tinged plate that drinks up the moonlight. Varian’s pale skin is as of yet unmarred by dirt and smoke and drying blood. His long, chestnut hair is drawn up into its usual high wolftail, a mane worthy of a lion. And Shalamayne still sits at his back, ready to be drawn and wielded in a heartbeat.

Garrosh inclines his head. "Few things would draw me from my city just now," he says after a moment, still taking in the human king standing before him. Things brewed in Orgrimmar, in his war room. They’re plans for Varian as much as they are for the Horde, and it’s only for Varian that he is willing to put them on hold for even a night.

"You would tear yourself away from violating every treaty and pact drawn in the last thirty years just for me?" Varian asks, the timbre of his voice dark and low. His thick eyebrows raise. "I'm flattered."

If Garrosh had still had hair, it would be bristling along the back of his neck.

Though this is their first meeting by choice, their first attempt at this sort of encounter, a certainty deep in the marrow of his bones tells him that it will not be the last. And Garrosh has a feeling that it will always start like this: barbed words, then perhaps blades, and then… well, whatever comes after warriors are spent of swords and steel, but not yet done.

"And what of you, _King_ Wrynn?" the orc grinds out, broad chin jutting forward as he speaks. "Does your kingdom mean so little to you? Your whelp? You risk it all to come here," he says, one side of his mouth pulling up in a cocky half-grin. "You live for them… but you only feel _alive_ in battle. With me."

Garrosh knows he's struck a nerve when the king strikes _him_.

The orc's grin persists through the pain— grows, even. A thin wash of blood mingles with his saliva, but the bitter taste is lessened by the sight of Varian stiffening and resisting the urge to cradle his bruised hand.

Garrosh chuckles and brazenly runs his tongue across his teeth. His tusks are large— harder than human bone or tooth— and it seems that for all the blessings of Lo’Gosh, Wrynn's hands are still human-soft.

"You were so quick to accuse me of seeking death in battle," Garrosh continues, only pausing to spit out the blood gathering behind his teeth and under his tongue, "but _what of you?_ A worn shadow of yourself whenever Shalamayne isn't singing in your hand," he sneers.

Varian's noble nose wrinkles, his lip curling up in a wolf's snarl as he draws Shalamayne from its sheath, and Garrosh’s blood quickens like the rush of the Southfury after Azshara's heavy rains. The human king paces around him, brow furrowed, eyes that glimmer blue occasionally flicking back up to his long-standing opponent.

"That there is no greater pleasure than cutting down orcs and their ilk is no fault of mine," Varian decides a moment after. He sighs and plants the tip of Shalamayne into the soft earth, leaning heavily on the sword. "I risk nothing in coming here," he concludes, tilting his head expectantly.

Garrosh snorts. "You risk your life."

Varian’s low laugh rings so pleasantly in Garrosh's ears, though he'd sooner bite off his own tongue than admit it.

"Do I need to put you on your knees before me again? Let you get reacquainted with the taste of Shalamayne? There are things that I fear, Hellscream. An orc that is my inferior in every manner is not one of them."

"In _every_ manner?" Garrosh grins, baring his tusks and teeth, delighted in the way the arrogance melts from Varian's expression and leaves wary confusion in its wake. He lets his glance drop pointedly to the armor that protects the king's groin. _Why lions? Lo'Gosh should be insulted at his preference for the feline creatures._ "That codpiece of yours would fit no orc, _your Highness_ ," he leers, letting the words drip from between his fangs like venom.

Garrosh grunts as Varian surges in close, slides a hand around his throat, and bears him down to the ground, one knee pressed against his navel. The human’s weight, though less than that of the orcs that Garrosh had grown up sparring with, rests heavily upon his chest. Varian’s ridiculous cobalt-tinged plate surely doesn’t help, no doubt doubling the bulk pressing down on his lungs. Garrosh bucks and gasps for breath, clawing at the king’s hips and twice threatening to topple him before being forcefully shoved back down into the earth.

Garrosh tires of this struggle quicker than Varian does. Not that it’s even a true fight, for surely he could force the human off of him if he desired to do so— Garrosh assures himself of that even as Varian deftly pins his arms down, armored knees pressing into the insides of his elbows, iron thighs squeezing tight on either side of his middle. He snarls, half at Varian’s inarguable skill and half at his own lack of drive to fight tooth and nail. It’s a frustrating spar, a confounding war game that’s been flipped on its head— why else would a proud orc not only accept defeat, but welcome it?

Before Garrosh knows it, they’re replaying his defeat at the human's hands on this very soil a month earlier. Again, he is laid out, captive, ensnared, enthralled, and all that’s missing are the physical wounds to show for it— though it seems that soon might change.

Garrosh’s breath catches in his chest at the sight of Shalamayne raised above him, one of Varian’s hands wrapped around its hilt and the other steadying the tip of the impressive blade. Varian holds the sword perpendicular to Garrosh's thick neck, a faint smile on his lips as he gently lowers it to press against vital, vulnerable flesh.

The orc stills as Shalamayne comes to rest on his throat, the masterwork blade compressing his windpipe and its razor-edge kissing the underside of his jaw. A grin tugged at his lips— one still sporting a fresh scar that perpetually reminds him of Varian— as the king locks eyes with him. "You fear me."

"I don't trust you," Varian corrects, laying his hands upon the sword and adjusting it carefully. The weight of the metal alone is enough to thin Garrosh’s air and leave marks upon his red-brown skin, but still the human frets over it, pushing just hard enough to stifle his breath, to nick his jaw.

Wary, he keeps one hand on Shalamayne at all times— even when it means he has to reach down and attempt to unbuckle his belt and armor one-handed.

Thick, claw-tipped fingers come to Varian’s aid, blindly navigating their way up the king’s thighs and hips. Garrosh sneers at the use of so much heavy plate and chain, at the weakness it inevitably masks, but he knows the ins and outs of such armor nonetheless. He undoes the king's belts and buckles by feel alone, tearing through leather and cloth whenever his hands come across it.

And he dares not move his head with Shalamayne so close and so hungry— _always_ hungry when it comes to orcs, he knows— but his eyes are not so hindered.

Garrosh watches Varian watch him, transfixed by the subtle, wavering movements of eyes that are neither brown nor gold, as most orcs’ are. The rings of Varian’s irises are a deep and piercing blue, like those of orcs _destined_ for greatness. Like Thrall, handed good favor and high regard on a silver platter.

Varian looks down on him, studying the warchief in turn, the sneering little curl of his upper lip fading oh-so-slow. Periodically, his gaze drifts down to watch the steady work of Garrosh’s hands on his armor and the clothing underneath. His lion-emblazoned belt is unceremoniously cast aside, along with his thigh-guards and codpiece. A simple twist of the orc’s wrist sends the buttons securing Varian’s supple leather breeches flying off and tumbling around in the damp undergrowth.

"Was that really necessary?" Varian asks with a sigh, leaning back just enough to take the pressure off of the orc's chest.

"Looks as though the king might have to make another shopping trip when he goes home. Pity," Garrosh rumbles as he rips along the front seam of Varian's pants, the sudden popping of stitches causing the man above him to snarl.

"I'll take the cost out of your hide, orc," Varian whispers, leaning down until his lips brush the heights of Garrosh's cheek, almost gentle over the old scars that crest his high cheekbones. His long, dark wolftail spills down over his plated shoulder, the king’s thick, coarse hair tickling against Garrosh’s bare, tattoo-marked skin.

It makes the orc growl and squirm under Varian’s hold, half wanting to untie the man's hair just to run it between his fingers, half yearning to knot his hands in that mane and pull Varian's head back until his pale, slender neck bows out like a young sapling bent to the point of breaking.

Garrosh pushes up against Varian’s hips and spread thighs, frustrated at the heavy weight that rests just across his waist, wretchedly far from where he would prefer to feel it.

Above him, Varian sways with the movement, as calm and unbothered as he would be waiting on a riled mount to settle. And then he bends over Garrosh, fingertips still resting on the flat of Shalamayne's blade as it nips at Garrosh's jaw, teasing at the orc’s mouth with his teeth and lips.

Varian’s tongue traces the scar of the slice he'd made a month ago— now healed, yes, but still a deep impression to remember him by— with a low, pleased little hum. He bites and pries and pushes until Garrosh meets his advances with pressing moves of his own, tusks rubbing red marks into the human’s sharp, hollowed cheeks. Varian welcomes it, lips curving into a smile through Garrosh’s increasingly aggressive kisses; he murmurs something about the taste of blood before again pressing his mouth firmly against the orc's, stifling any response.

Garrosh roils under him now, thoughts clouded by a heady mix of rage and lust. Lust at the scent of the aroused man astride him, at the taste of him and his obvious eagerness and those small, gasping pants for breath. The rage comes from the way Varian simultaneously controls and denies him— rocking his hips back and forth against the base of Garrosh’s ribcage, grinding himself against the captive orc's bare middle, his breaths growing heavier with need by the moment. Meanwhile, Garrosh is left with nothing at all. No friction, no weight, no touch. He bucks his hips upward once more, futilely trying to writhe enough to shift Varian back a few blessed inches.

Deep, consuming frustration burns its way through Garrosh, the same way a shaman's lightning courses through an enemy's body. A growl begins deep within his chest, rising until it pools in the back of his throat, his whole body coiling with tension. He frees his mouth from Varian’s long enough to hiss, "When I have my turn with you—"

The steeled toe of one of Varian's boots slides back and pushes into the back of Garrosh’s thigh, immediately finding the freshly healed-over wound he'd left on the warchief a month prior. He presses it until the orc writhes under him, the pain doing little to temper his pleasure. "Your _turn?_ This isn't a game, Hellscream. Nothing so civilized as that. This is still a battle, and if you want something—"

"Then I'll _take_ you," Garrosh spits, upper lip quivering with an involuntary snarl that bares his teeth.

"I look forward to the attempt," Varian snorts as he begins to twist and pull at the orc's thick hide belt, careless as he strips away the dark metal that buckles it and undoes the fastenings underneath. He grabs the sides of Garrosh’s pants, giving sharp, rough tugs that slip them down his hips inches at a time.

Garrosh’s eyes slide to the side, finding the sight of the night-darkened forest preferable to Varian’s reaction as he eagerly lifts his hips to ease the undressing. Stiff, slightly abrasive leather slides down his thighs and bunches around his calves; the fine, supple material of Varian’s gloves is far more pleasing on his skin.

Desire laced with disgust flickers through the orc as Varian kneels between his legs, poised over him like a wolf with trapped prey, hungry to make a meal of him. Or a worthy conqueror, sealing the victory he’d claimed a month ago by taking what is his. Garrosh licks his lips, heart thrumming like a wardrum at the thought.

Varian looms closer, the sweat-damp fabric of his untucked undershirt ghosting carelessly over Garrosh’s exposed length and shivering skin. A sharp, deep ache slides through the orc at the sensation, same as drinking from Northrend’s icy rivers and snowmelt would sting freezing trails through his insides. It’s a need like none he’s ever felt— or let himself feel, maybe.

"Like a dog in heat," Varian mutters in response to the keening noise Garrosh had tried and failed to swallow back. "Why am I not surprised?" he asks himself, quickly drawing a small, dark vial from a pouch tied to Shalamayne's scabbard.

Garrosh recognizes the smell at once— an herbal oil, ideal for preventing rust. He uses the very same one on Gorehowl during his weekly care for the greataxe, smoothing the clear, floral-scented liquid through every groove and scratch and nick in the metal. He thinks of the first time he'd done so, that first night after he'd been presented with his father's legendary weapon, recalling the hours he'd spent marveling at the weight and craftsmanship of the blade, at the gouges across the flat of the axe that sang the piercing note that Hellscreams were fabled for.

Garrosh desperately tries not to compare that to this one, with Varian’s arm bent between his spread thighs and two gloved, oiled fingers gliding inside of him, opening him up, not entirely unlike a weapon being oiled and made ready for use…

"Are you this thorough with Shalamayne?" Garrosh shudders out, his jaw quickly snapping shut when Varian crooks his fingers in reply, pressing up into a spot that briefly renders the orc speechless.

"Before momentous occasions," Varian casually replies, the rough, urgent movements of his fingers giving way to something slightly more gentle. "Big battles. Public events. And _after_ particularly bloody fights, of course. Don't move."

Another finger slips in alongside the other two, the oil and smooth leather an utterly novel sensation down there. Garrosh digs his fingers down into the moss and loamy soil, anchoring himself against the desire to throw his head back and writhe, ever conscious of Shalamayne still set across his throat.

“Have you done this before?”

Garrosh barely heeds the question, at first. Then Varian’s fingers go still inside of him, waiting for some answer.

“I— yes,” Garrosh says, voice thin, his jaw tightening up right after. Years ago, in Northrend, with an orc long since slain in battle, but that was never anything like this. “Once.”

“Well, then,” Varian murmurs, withdrawing his fingers and wrapping them around his pale, bobbing cock instead, working the remaining oil along its length.

The king edges closer, lining himself up between Garrosh’s legs, and amid the anticipation and the fraying of his nerves, Garrosh is pleased to realize that for once he has Varian on his knees for him.

Varian’s hands grip hard around Garrosh’s hips and hoist him closer, dragging the heavy orc inches across the earth, and it’s pathetic how the simple act makes Garrosh’s cock twitch and heat bubble in his belly. Manhandled by a _human—_ what would his fellow orcs say to see him like this?

Garrosh has time only to clench his jaw and will himself silent before Varian continues forward with their strange, should-be-undesirable coupling. There’s the pressure of Varian’s cockhead against him, a little broader than those three fingers had been, and then he thrusts in hard enough to bury himself to the hilt in one stroke, Garrosh wincing at the sudden pressure.

The sensation is more unfamiliar than painful, discomfort with a rising undercurrent of pleasure. His awareness narrows to the fullness of Varian within him, more satisfying than he would ever have thought a human could be. But that’s Varian Wrynn, so unlike any of his kind. So much better than they are, and more _insufferable,_ and well worth every drop of blood Garrosh has ever shed over him.

A sharp noise of yearning slips through his gritted teeth as Varian takes him, slowly— agonizingly slowly, with Shalamayne's edge flush against his throat. Varian’s cock sinks into him with long, steady strokes that drive Garrosh to near madness. Sweat beads on his brow and across his bare skin, dripping down in rivulets to feed Ashenvale’s lush forest. Garrosh is reminded of the sweltering afternoon sessions to tattoo his jaw, and the satisfaction that had been left in the wake of all the sweat and ache and pain. He licks his lips, suddenly thirsty, and grunts softer than a whisper as he begins to move his hips in an unsteady rhythm timed against Varian's measured thrusts.

There is a molten flow in Ashenvale now— a peak that erupted in the Cataclysm and even now still burned, torching more forest than the Warsongs would ever have harvested for lumber. Garrosh had seen it on a ranging when he first began to plan for the assault on the forest, feeling the need to survey the land himself. Reluctantly, he had taken a map written in the night elves' scrawling hand and skulked through the shadowed forest with only a handful of guides and Kor'kron guards, familiarizing himself. And he'd seen the burning mountain across the river, looming distant above the treeline, its peak sputtering lava even brighter than the red of human blood, every guttering burst of magma like a spray from a killing blow.

And not a single thought of that inferno compares to what is raging within him now, brewing low in his loins. It’s a heat more intense than the baking sun of Durotar, deeper than the pits of flame that raged in Hellfire Chasm. Garrosh can’t quite pinpoint the source of the blaze— shame and embarrassment, physical exertion, the pleasure that threatens to consume him— but he hopes that Varian feels it as well. Or at least that it might catch between them like a wildfire spark kissing dry wood, because if he burns, it only seems right that Varian burns with him.

Garrosh tenses as the pressure behind Shalamayne suddenly increases, bearing the blade down against his throat; it crushes into his windpipe, choking him mid-breath, that honed edge still flush with the soft underside of his tattooed jaw. And Varian fucks him straight through it, a hand braced against Shalamayne as he leans over Garrosh, his hips meeting the orc’s flesh at a hurried, erratic pace.

The edges of Garrosh’s vision dim, his mouth thrown open in a voiceless cry. All he can see is Varian above him, face framed by dark, thick hair shaken loose from its tie, those thick brows knitted tight and his bottom lip pinched between his teeth. And all he can feel is Varian’s weight leaning into him, every thrust stoking the inferno building in Garrosh’s gut, striking just as sure as any lancing blow with Shalamayne, until Garrosh’s body bows and his back arches, sputtering reedily for breath.

A spasm of tension seizes him then, every muscle coiling tight before giving way to an ecstatic shudder. Release ripples through him like a shockwave, all the heat that had been trapped and stirred inside him at last slipping out as he comes across his own stomach in sudden, erratic spurts.

The pressure forcing Shalamayne against his flesh abruptly relents as Varian comes, too, with a near-silent groan. There’s a rush of foreign warmth, something slick and sticky dripping out of him as Varian slowly pulls himself free, his deep, satisfied breaths interspersed with the faintest sighs. Garrosh's ears twitch to catch the soft noises the man makes, to record them in his mind as certainly as he knows Gorehowl's song and the hourly bellows of the great horns in Orgrimmar.

He’s too drained to do anything else, though, his nerves still alight yet worn down all the same. He musters an ounce of strength— more than he’d thought was left in his limbs, his bones all feeling like soft, wet sand— and shoves the weighty blade of Shalamayne off and away from him. The sword falls with a muted thud on the vine-strewn soil beside him, lying close to Gorehowl.

Garrosh waits for Varian to spit his usual venom, to mock his weakness or ruffle at the treatment of his prized sword. And waits. And waits a few breaths more, until the lack of Common squawking prompts him to lift his head and prop himself up on his elbows, which is achieved with much groaning and silent cursing at his insubordinate limbs.

Varin is sitting back on his heels, still situated between the orc's bent legs. Still exposed, all pink and shiny where he’s softening— though Garrosh knows he didn't leave the man much choice, given the way he'd torn right into those fine britches. Still breathing heavily, too, his thick, chestnut hair plastered to his skin with sweat.

"Did you mean to lie beside me and make little promises of love and affection after?" Garrosh questions, too tired to even impart the words with a sneer.

Varian's head snaps up, his preoccupied gaze quickly turning predator-sharp again as he focuses on the recumbent orc. "I didn't touch you. I mean, I didn't even have to," he mutters after a moment of drawn silence, his stare drifting back down to Garrosh's flaccid length and the pale trails of spent seed pooled in the muscular dips of his stomach. "It's good. That I didn't need to. Glad to have been spared that," he quickly adds, his soft-lipped mouth curving down in distaste.

"Last thing I need is some human's frail hand on me," the orc snaps back in feigned agreement, a slow, steady flow of anger reawakening his senses and driving out his exhaustion. "Probably leave me softer than I'd started," he growls as he pushes himself up into something closer to a sitting position.

"I'm dexterous with a sword nearly five feet in length," Varian says, making some effort to cover himself as he rises to his feet. His lower lip juts out slightly as he belts his tattered trousers on and leaves the length of his undershirt untucked to hide the worst of the damage along the front of his breeches. "Something _so_ much smaller shouldn't prove that challenging," he shrugs in between refastening bits of armor.

Garrosh snorts, more concerned with scouring the nearby ground for large, non-poisonous vine leaves to wipe his abdomen clean. He makes a note to wade through the riverbanks on the way back, too; human smell lingers on him as thick as fel smoke, strong enough to attract the notice of any orc or troll.

There’s a tinge of soreness deep within him as he stands and draws his leather trousers back up to his hips, and a lingering mess between his upper thighs. Another reminder of Varian, although he doubts this one will linger as long as the slice through his lip. And he’s left a few petty reminders of his own on Varian this time, too.

"What will you tell your soldiers when they see you like that?" Garrosh asks, a grin widening around his tusks.

Vairan glances down at his disarrayed armor and ruined clothing— missing buttons, torn seams, claws raked though leather and fabric. "That I encountered a mad orc stumbling through the forest. What will _you_ say?"

"Cornered by an odd wolf."

"Odd, tch," Varian repeats, the soft shadow of a smile on his lips as he shakes his head. "It _is_ odd, this. And what will you tell them next time?" he asks, voice uncharacteristically light as he stoops to gather up Shalamayne and sheath it.

"That I went hunting again, and this time _I_ cornered the wolf," Garrosh says, shooting Varian an intent look, and gauging his reaction; the king is haughty as ever, chin lifted a hair and faint amusement scrawled across his thin smile. "But perhaps next time we meet won't be here," the orc muses as he retrieves Gorehowl and gives the weapon a quick once-over.

"Tired of being dominated on Ashenvale soil? I would be, too," Varian says, laughing under his breath. "Where do you have in mind, orc?"

Garrosh gives him a sharp, toothy grin. "A place you know. You are always welcome in Orgrimmar, Wrynn, as my prisoner."

"Light willing, I'll never set foot in that cesspit you call a city," Varian sighs, still fussing with his belt. "No, I'll find some mutually convenient venue," he decides, staring at the dark, soft dirt as he twists a steel-capped toe into the ground. "Sometime. Before the year is out, maybe."

"I could always come to you," Garrosh offers in a low, goading tone. "Bring the Horde to Stormwind's gates…"

Varian's glare cuts through the questioning silence that lingers in the air after those words. "I think we've all had enough of your Horde tromping into land it doesn't belong in," he says, stern and strained, eyes on his gloves as he wipes away the oil and clinging earth.

Garrosh bites out a short, severe laugh. "Oh, such a crime when the Horde does it, yet the ant-lines of Theramore soldiers trailing through Durotar and the Barrens go unquestioned—"

"Light preserve us," Varian mutters, massaging his temple. "Just keep to your lands, Hellscream. The ones you _actually_ have claim to— your deserts and wastes, your plague-bombed countrysides. It's that simple." He lifts a hand and touches fingers to Shalamayne’s hilt, as if reassuring himself that his sword is at his back, within easy reach, as it should always be. "And _try_ not to do anything else to antagonize the kal'dorei between now and when we next meet."

Garrosh's ears droop down half an inch, his frown deepening as he watches Varian Wrynn turn and take his first steps to leave— perhaps back to some Sentinels' camp or a rebuilt night elf settlement, their homes all shaped from living wood.

"The kal'dorei, the kal'dorei," the orc spits, tempted to hurl Gorehowl into one of the thick-trunked trees surrounding them. "Can't chance hurting the night elves and their _oh-so-precious_ feelings, or their _delicate_ trees. Nevermind it anymore, Wrynn. I'm done with this wretched forest and the craven elves festering within it," he finishes with a long, low exhale, his throat burning with words he still wishes to spill out, things he'd never _say_ but could perhaps hiss against the human's scarred lips, if the chance were to come again.

Varian's eyes— their pale color highlighted by the moonlight— studies him close, wary again. Uncertain.

"Good," the man says in flat tones. His head bobs in a slight nod. "Good."

Varian shifts uneasily, taking a step backward before turning on his heel and stalking away into the tangle of forest, the dark material of his cloak helping to blend him with the shadows as he retreats.

Garrosh slowly uncurls his clenched fingers— uncertain when he'd made them into fists to begin with— and tries to ease the tension drawn up into his shoulders. It’s _so typical_ of Wrynn to leave him seething, cast aside to stew over his shortcomings until they see each other again.

And oh, it flits through his mind constantly— the thought of seeing Varian Wrynn again. Tasting him again. Gaining the upper hand against him, pinning him down, making him beg for everything Garrosh aches to give him. It badgers at his mind the way a hungry wolf worries a bone, incessant and slobberingly desperate for the tiniest reward.

Nothing in his head or heart seems to be weighted properly anymore, whatever scale Garrosh had once measured himself and his actions upon now wildly out of balance. The needs of the Horde, the purpose of living up to his father's memory, his own desires…

He ignores the spider's web he passes through, merely grunting as he wipes away the sticky, clinging strands and knocks aside the clicking, fist-sized arachnid that tries to scuttle up his arm. He holds Gorehowl aloft as he wades jaw-deep through the moving waters, letting the cold currents carry away every bit of Varian that remains. And then, cold and wet and grimly miserable, he carves a path back to the Warsong encampment.

Briefly, Garrosh finds himself wishing he had some confidant to turn to in times like these. If not for his… conflict of interests with Wrynn, then at least to lend judgment to that which concerns the Horde and its leadership. Cairne had been disrespectful and stubborn, but his knowledge as an elder was substantial; the wise old tauren had counseled Thrall well for years, but… that door is shut and sealed, now, as distant to Garrosh as any true loyalty from Baine ever will be. Even Saurfang would have his ear now, if he wished it; the old warrior had more of value to say than most, Garrosh has to admit.

But Saurfang remains in Northrend, still mourning a hero long dead, while Thrall fusses over the unruly elements, the Horde he’d helped create cast aside. While Sylvanas and Vol'jin undermine Garrosh at every turn. While Lor'themar and the goblin keep their distance, paying only the most cursory of respects.

Garrosh lets out a long, weary exhale as he sloshes through a murky creek, in the hopes it will wash away any sign of his misdeed that still clings to him. He’d hoped to find a wolf or deer to kill along the way, knowing the scent of fresh blood would easily overpower any trace of human scent; the forest is bent on denying him even that much, though, and he arrives at the Warsong lumber camp empty-handed.

The sentries on the fringes say nothing of his disheveled state as he passes, perhaps helped along in their silence by the deeply etched scowl on their warchief's face. For a few moments, Garrosh even thinks that he might make it back to his room within the hold without prying questions or fretting.

That hope dies a quick death as he turns a corner inside and finds Dargo standing at attention outside his door, his too-large helm positioned low over his brow.

"Warchief!" the younger orc says in surprise, his brown eyes widening as he takes in Garrosh Hellscream’s wet, bedraggled appearance. "Are you… are you well, Warchief?" he asks, hurrying to pull aside the heavy hides that hang across the door— a privacy afforded only to certain rooms within the hold.

"Well enough. You are dismissed," Garrosh answers, tugging the hides closed behind him. The brazier beside his pile of thick furs and pelts still glows with red coals, emanating heat and weak light. It had been tended to recently— or perhaps continuously, for all the hours he had been gone, in stalwart anticipation of his return.

He wonders whether his guards had taken shifts or if Dargo had done it all himself.

"Warchief," Dargo says from beyond the door, his shadow visible along the stone floor as he shifts in place. With a quiet cough, he pushes aside the hide door coverings just a sliver and peers through. "I ask your permission to stay. To stand guard for you. Allow me this honor, Warchief."

Garrosh’s ears give a slight perk. He steps forward, away from the brazier, suddenly feeling too warm for its heat.

Dargo glances away, somewhere behind him, and then turns back.

"Gorkrana asks the same," the young Kor’kron adds as a pair of narrower boots arrive with quiet metallic clicks against the stone, just visible in the gap between the floor and the hide covering. "If it pleases you, Warchief."

"It does," Garrosh admits after a moment’s thought, nodding to Dargo.

The respect of his fellow orcs had been all he wanted in Nagrand, after all, among the Mag’har. Their loyalty is all he needs to rebuild the Horde into a power that can no longer be shoved aside, relegated to the most desolate swathes of Kalimdor while other races flourish in lands as verdant as Nagrand. Their faith is all he needs to inspire him to return his people to their former glory— to a force even Varian Wrynn would be forced to recognize as superior.

Garrosh watches two pairs of plated boots take up positions on either side of his doorway, stubbornly willing to stay by his side. And there, on a pile of dark, lustrous furs that feel silky fine between his fingers, he sleeps well.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> You can find me [on twitter!](https://twitter.com/saltisochi)


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